The Trick: A Novel
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About this ebook
In 1934, a rabbi’s son in Prague joins a traveling circus, becomes a magician, and rises to fame under the stage name the Great Zabbatini, just as Europe descends into World War II. When Zabbatini is discovered to be a Jew, his battered trunk full of magic tricks becomes his only hope for survival.
Seventy years later in Los Angeles, ten-year-old Max finds a scratched-up LP that captured Zabbatini performing his greatest illusions. But the track in which Zabbatini performs the spell of eternal love—the spell Max believes will keep his parents from getting divorced—is damaged beyond repair. Desperate for a solution, Max seeks out the now elderly, cynical magician and begs him for help.
With gentle wisdom and heartbreaking humor, this is an inventive, deeply moving story about a young boy who needs a miracle, and a disillusioned old man who needs redemption.
Emanuel Bergmann
Emanuel Bergmann was born in Germany and is a journalist and translator. He has been living in Los Angeles since 1990. His first novel, The Trick, was an international bestseller.
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Reviews for The Trick
34 ratings9 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is the story of two people at two different periods of time. The first is a young Jewish man in Prague during the 1930s as Germany is making drastic and horrific changes to his world. The second is an American Jewish boy living in Southern California and struggling with the imminent divorce between his parents' marriage. The book switches back and forth between the two stories with darkness and impending horror in the older story and humor and childhood angst in the modern day story. I liked the juxtaposition of the two stories with some clever intersections. The writing was very fluid and individual passages were powerful. But the overall flow, and especially the development of Moshe, seemed rushed and a bit unbelievable. This is still an impressive debut and I'm hoping to see more of this author.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The title of this book just doesn’t quite live up to the story. A trick means to prank, fool or cheat in some way. None of those words describe how I felt as I read about these two boys, from different countries and different generations, who just happen to form a friendship that has a meaningful impact on everyone around them.Set in dual time frames, readers first meet Moshe, who lives in Prague with his Jewish family. The story follows the life of Moshe as a child, up until he becomes an old man, living in Los Angeles. Or maybe I should say he was waiting to die in Los Angeles. His best days seem to be buried in the past and he has become a cynical and grumpy old man.In Los Angeles, we meet ten-year-old Max, who is upset about his parent’s impending divorce. Max stumbles upon an old record about a magician named the Great Zabbatini and becomes convinced this man can work his magic in reuniting his parents. As Max begins his search for the magician, readers are taken back and forth in time as Emanuel Bergmaun weaves his magic in revealing the life story of the Great Zabbatini. From Prague to the circus, to theaters, to Berlin and the concentration camps of World War II, we follow Moshe’s path up until the point where it merges with the path of ten-year-old Max. The two form an unlikely bond and Max’s parents have no choice but to allow the relationship to run its course. Max convinces Moshe to perform his magic tricks at his 11th birthday party and what unfolds is deeply moving, especially for Max and his family.This is a wonderful story and a treat to read. It is touching, yet humorous and hopeful. Moshe reminded me a bit of Ove in Fredrik Backman’s novel, but the stories are very different. This is Bergmaun’s first novel, but hopefully not his last.Many thanks to NetGalley and Atria Books for allowing me an advance copy to read and give my honest review.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5If you read the description of this book, you may think that this is just another WWII story. Well, it is, but it sure is a good one and I am glad that I read it. The story alternates between 1934 and 2007. It is the story of love, loss and hope.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I loved this little boy, Max, in this book. He was so hellbent on his parents not breaking up. One day when he finds a record that belonged to his dad, a magician that his dad really liked, he finds a spell. A special, magical spell. One that will make people fall in love. Only one problem, the record is scratched on the one and only spell he needs.Max decides to take off and find this magician. His travels, his discovery of the magician and what he will do to get his parents back together back this such a great book.I really enjoyed this one and even though I am writing this review two months after I read the book, all I had to do was read the blurb and this one came right back to me. Total enjoyment.Thanks to Atria Books and Net Galley for providing me with a free e-galley in exchange for an honest, unbiased review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Moshe Goldenhirsch grew up in Prague in the 1930's. His family was far from perfect and Moshe decides to run away. Moshe comes across a circus run by the Half-Moon Man and is entranced by his magic tricks; he eventually is eventually taken on as an apprentice by the Half-Moon man. Moshe eventually transforms into the Great Zabbatini, a Persian mentalist. However, as the war grows, Zabbatini's facade is broken and he is found out as a Jew. In 2007, Max Cohn is trying to deal with his parent's divorce. As his parents are moving out, Max finds a record of the Great Zabbatini's performance and one of his tricks is a spell for eternal love. The record happens to be scratched on the eternal love spell sending Max on an adventure to find the real Zabbatini and ask him to perform his spell. This dual time story was an emotional journey that ranged from sorrowful to sweet. The writing flowed seamlessly as the alternating time lines switched between Moshe and Max. Moshe's story drew me in with the complexity of family issues and his desire to find escape within the magic of the circus. I was further impressed with Moshe's transformation to Zabbatini and his path to becomming a mentalist. The suspense grew as Zabbatini interacted with officials from the Nazi party. Seeing some of the mentalist tricks in action was very intriguing. Max's character evoked a lot of sympathy as his parents went through the trials of divorce and Max clung to the hope of a magic spell. When Max did fine Zabbatini, the tone of the story changed as both characters found hope in one another. The relationship they formed was similar to grandparent and grandchild and exactly what the other needed at the time. I loved the eternal love spell that Zabbatini performed as well as the unlikely connection that he found. Overall, an emotional story that incorporates history, magic and hope. This book was provided for free in return for an honest review.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I just finished "The Trick" by Emanuel Bergmann that I got from the Net Galley by a mistake by my doing. I was tempted to send it back but I started reading the book and could not put it down. What a delightful book. A story about happiness, sadness, love and lots of humor. This book about a boy during WWII and a boy in present day. All tied together in the end but I will say not more. I will give this book over 5 stars, it's a must read for anyone who likes books like "All the Light We Cannot See". The book is very moving, wonderful and pure magic. Thanks Net Galley for the copy.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5This book felt like a fairytale, but unfortunately I don't like fairytales. I read about a third of it and wasn't enjoying it at all, so I quit. This just wasn't for me. I received a free copy of this book from the publisher.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This was a fun read and an interestingly coincidental story. I guess my only problem with the book was how many things did fall into place that were not totally believable. That said, it was heartwarming. Max is a little boy who is feeling the loss of his dad after his parent's separation. He finds the only person who he believes can bring them back together, The Great Zabbatini. Unfortunately, this magician is an old, lonely man with no desire to live. Both are a bit precocious and as such become friends in spite of their rocky start. Surviving the concentration camp has given the old magician a rough veneer, but he still has the capacity to care and respond to the needs of children like Max. My favorite part of the story is how his cold heart does warm, and he finds the peace and appreciation that he has searched for all his life.This is an affecting novel that will probably engage most readers. I recommend it to anyone who enjoys an emotional tug on the heart.My thanks to the publisher and NetGalley for the opportunity to read and review this title.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I received a free advance e-copy of this book and have chosen to write an honest and unbiased review. I have no personal affiliation with the author. This is a wonderful story, sort of an adult fairy tale. I loved every minute. Max, a young boy, is looking for the Great Zabbatini to assist him with a magic trick in order to fix his broken family. This is a very moving story that is at times funny, nostalgic, and very thought provoking. There is a wonderful surprise along with a somewhat sad ending. Mr. Bergmann is a great storyteller. ‘The Trick’ is well written with a great plot and fully developed characters. This book is well worth the read and I look forward to reading more from this author in the future.
Book preview
The Trick - Emanuel Bergmann
THE WAY THINGS OUGHT TO BE
In the early days of the twentieth century, in the city of Prague, lived a man named Laibl Goldenhirsch. He was a rabbi, an unassuming teacher who sought to understand the mysteries that surround us all. A daunting task, but he pursued it with heart and soul. He spent countless hours brooding over the Torah, the Talmud, the Tanakh, and other riveting reads. After years of learning and teaching, he slowly began to understand the way things are, but more importantly, the way they ought to be. There seemed to be some discrepancies between the shining glory of creation and the often baffling and rainy world in which we humans are forced to spend our lives. His students valued him, at least the ones who weren’t fools. His words could light up the darkness like a candle.
He lived with his wife, Rifka, in a tiny apartment in a ramshackle tenement building near the banks of the Vltava River. Their home consisted of only one room. They didn’t own much. A kitchen table, a woodburning stove, a sink, and, of course, a bed that creaked rhythmically during each Sabbath night, as it was written and decreed.
Between the floors of their building was a miracle of modernity, an indoor toilet. To their daily annoyance, they had to share it with their upstairs neighbor, Moshe the Locksmith, a noisy man, an oaf, who fought frequently and loudly with his unpleasant wife.
Rabbi Goldenhirsch lived in a time of great renewal, but for the most part he remained blissfully untouched by the momentous changes around him. Just a few years earlier, the gas lamps on the streets had been replaced by electric ones, which had people divided. Was it the work of Satan or was it socialism? Also, steel tracks had been laid by the banks of the river, and soon the carriages that used to rattle up and down the roads made way for a tram, its metal wheels screeching and emitting sparks of fire.
This is what it looked like, the everyday magic of a new age.
Laibl Goldenhirsch had little use for it. Trams or no trams, life was hard. He went about his daily work in much the same way that the Jews of Europe had done for centuries and would presumably do for centuries to come. He didn’t ask for much, and as a result, he didn’t receive much either.
His face was narrow and pale; he had a black beard. His eyes were deep and dark, and he peered out at the world with a certain amount of distrust. At night, after the hardships of the day, the rabbi rested his head on a pillow next to his beloved wife, Rifka, a strong and beautiful woman with rough hands, gentle eyes, and flowing auburn hair, and he imagined that he could see the stars above the ceiling. His eyes wandered far into the heavens, then turned like a leaf in the breeze and looked back down to earth, this tiny spark in the universe. As exhausting as life could be, there was—behind the thin veil of the ordinary—a brilliance that mystified and exhilarated him. The simple act of living,
he liked to say, and living well, is in itself a prayer.
Lately, however, he couldn’t sleep. Night after night, he would lie in bed and stare into the darkness. In this new age of man-made wonders, was there no more room for real miracles? Rabbi Goldenhirsch was in need of one.
There was something missing in his life: a son. He spent his days teaching the sons of other men—idiots, the lot of them—and when he looked at them, he imagined that one day he would look into the face of his own child. So far, his prayers went unanswered. The sun rose for others, but not for Laibl and Rifka. Many a night, the rabbi toiled away on top of his wife, but it was fruitless. And so the bed creaked less and less.
The new century was still young when a war broke out. This was, in and of itself, nothing remarkable. Wars were always breaking out, like the flu. But this war was unlike others, even though Rabbi Goldenhirsch and his wife failed to notice it at first. This was the Great War. It would soon leave millions dead in its wake. It was no flu, it was the plague. His students asked him to explain what was going on, and for the first time in his life, he was confronted with something beyond his reach. Until now, he could simply blame God and His mysterious ways, but this new war was anything but divine. The rabbi was perplexed. He stood in front of his class, his mouth hanging open, stuttering helplessly. He knew the plain facts, of course. Archduke Franz Ferdinand had been assassinated in Sarajevo at the hands of a coward. But Sarajevo was far away from the center of the civilized world, deep in the Balkans: what did it matter if someone was shot there? The goyim were always shooting at one another. Was one archduke less really such a tragedy? He knew, of course, that human life was immeasurably precious, that each violent death was an act of blasphemy and so forth, and he understood why the emperor of Austria-Hungary—to whom he and the citizens of Prague had sworn their allegiance—was upset. But really, why should this concern him?
But it did, greatly. Within a few months, agitation spread through the streets of Prague. Old men paced around the cafés, shaking their fists and waving newspapers around. Everyone tried to make sense of the latest developments on the front. Women anxiously gathered at Wenceslas Square, trading information about their sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers, who had eagerly joined the war effort. Very few realized that most of their men would never return. Those who were too young to fight studied the lists of the wounded and fallen, published every day, like the results of a soccer match. How many of ours? How many of theirs? The young were anxious to fight, and they would soon get the chance. The war raged on for many years and, in the process, became less and less choosy: it devoured all.
Even the Jews.
And so it happened that, one sunny day, Laibl Goldenhirsch was conscripted into Emperor Franz Joseph’s army. When Rifka came home from the market, she burst into tears. Her spindly-legged husband was standing uneasily in front of their only mirror, dressed—somewhat unusually—in a uniform. He seemed confused as he held out his bayonet.
What do I do with this?
he asked her.
You stick it in a Russian,
Rifka replied, fighting against tears, but in vain. She hid her face and turned away.
And so, Laibl Goldenhirsch marched off to a war he still didn’t understand.
Rifka had to survive without her husband. Which, as it turned out, was remarkably easy. She realized that he really was rather useless around the house. She missed him anyway. Never before in her life had she missed something so useless with so much fervor.
Almost every day, Rifka left the city and went into the woods outside of Prague, carrying two buckets full of coal, which she traded for butter and bread at nearby farms. Better to be cold than hungry.
When summer approached and the days grew warmer, her endeavor became more difficult. She had to find other things to take to the country, and on the way back, she hid the butter under her skirt. Danger was everywhere. More than once, there was nothing left by the time she came home, especially when there was partisan fighting and she had to hide in the woods until it was over. Nothing left but a warm trail of molten butter running down her thighs.
One evening in September, as she came home, she found Moshe the Locksmith from upstairs sitting on the staircase. He wore a ragged soldier’s uniform, and he was weeping. It was odd to see this giant of a man crying, his heavy bulk wavering, his head bobbing up and down. Deep and sorrowful sobs emerged from his body. When she went up to him and asked him what was wrong, he told her that he had just returned from the front, on furlough, but no sooner had he entered his apartment than his wife had told him it was over between them. He hadn’t heard from her in a while. No letters, nothing, he said between sobs. Rifka felt sorry for him. She had never cared much for the Locksmith’s wife, and she wasn’t terribly surprised that the cow had left the pasture.
She took him into her arms and comforted him. The butter was still sticking to her leg.
One bright Wednesday morning, Laibl Goldenhirsch returned from the front. He was limping, but otherwise in the best of spirits. Rifka was sewing a shirt when the door opened, and looked up to see his gaunt shape leaning against the doorframe. So bony! So thin! She dropped her needle and thread and flung herself into his weak arms. He held her, as best he could, and tears of joy streamed down her face.
Good news,
said Laibl, holding up his bayonet. The Russian was quicker—he stuck me first. They put me in a field hospital.
Laibl’s injuries were hardly dramatic. He showed Rifka a scar on his thigh. His commanding officer, he said, had spoken up for him, and he didn’t have to go back to the front. He was allowed to recuperate at a sanitarium in Karlovy Vary. He had a limp, but Laibl was now officially a wounded veteran. He sat down. Rifka gave him bread and asked him to tell her about the war. But his smile froze, and he seemed to be looking straight through her. Taking her hands in his, he gently kissed her fingertips. She searched in his eyes and found nothing but darkness. He shook his head. They made an unspoken pact to not talk about the front.
Three weeks later, after years of war, peace finally came. The war to end all wars had ended, and people were celebrating in the streets. Peace, peace at last, only without the glorious victory that had been promised. At least the nightmare was over. The survivors drank and sang, happy to be alive. People were bellowing and dancing, a few windows were broken, why not? Despite all that, there was a tangible feeling of shame, a deep sense of exhaustion. The people of Europe had grown tired of fighting and dying. Revolutions had broken out in Russia and Germany. The czar and his family were slaughtered. The emperor of Germany went on vacation, opting not to return. The Kingdom of Bohemia became the Republic of Czechoslovakia. Good news, all in all. But not as good as the news that Rifka had for Laibl Goldenhirsch:
I am pregnant.
Rifka’s husband was stunned. He could hardly believe it. How was this possible? All right, the bed had creaked for the first few nights after his return, but wasn’t it too early for the pregnancy to show? Rifka’s belly had already grown slightly larger underneath her dress.
Laibl was pacing up and down, his black overcoat flapping about like the wings of an agitated pigeon. And as Rifka looked out the window, she suddenly had an idea. What was it that the goyim believed? What was it that their alleged Virgin Mary had said to Joseph?
It’s a miracle,
Rifka exclaimed.
A what?
said Laibl.
God has worked a miracle for us.
As she said this, she cast her eyes downward in what she hoped was an appropriately virtuous manner. She managed to make her lips and hands tremble ever so slightly, because she seemed to remember that miracles were generally accompanied by trembling.
A miracle?
the Rabbi asked. He was baffled. As a rabbi, he was something of an expert on the subject of miracles. And this one seemed suspicious.
"Oy gevalt!" he said.
Look around you,
Rifka said. God makes everything happen. Everything! Why wouldn’t he make a miracle happen for us? Surely he must know how much you wanted a son.
She felt certain that it would be a son. She walked over to Laibl and put her head on his shoulder. She whispered sweetly into his ear. God has granted your wish.
Rabbi Goldenhirsch was still distrustful of the miracle. Also, his stomach was unwell.
It was an immaculate conception,
said Rifka.
Nonsense,
said the rabbi. Every conception is maculate. This one especially. Who is the father?
The father is God,
said Rifka stubbornly. I was visited by an angel.
The rabbi threw his hands up in the air and began pacing once more. As night fell, he was no closer to solving this mystery. He decided he needed a break. The growling in his stomach was getting thunderous.
I’ll be right back,
he said. After removing the large toilet key from the hook by the door, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He went up the staircase, where the miracle of modernity awaited him.
It was occupied.
He waited patiently, more or less, bouncing on the balls of his feet. A few minutes later, he was seized by restlessness. He knocked. He heard a gruff voice from inside, and some rustling. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in the dark and cold staircase, the door opened.
His noisy oaf of an upstairs neighbor, Moshe the Locksmith, came out, grumbling something incoherent, perhaps a greeting, then quickly averted his eyes to the floor as he furtively hurried past the rabbi. He was a large man, clumsy in movement and mind, too big for his own body, his arms and legs barely covered in torn rags. Like a golem. The rabbi looked after him.
A thought occurred to him. Moshe!
he called.
Yes?
The Locksmith stared at the rabbi. There had always been a strain of animosity between the two men. The rabbi considered the Locksmith a lowlife idiot, and the Locksmith thought of the rabbi as an arrogant fool. Laibl Goldenhirsch looked into Moshe’s eyes, hoping to detect something, anything, a strain of guilt, perhaps.
I meant to ask you something,
the rabbi cautiously began.
Moshe simply nodded and continued to glare. If he felt any guilt, he certainly didn’t show it.
It’s about . . .
Laibl didn’t get any farther. His words ran out like water on sand.
Yes?
Another attempt: It’s about a lock.
What about it?
I can’t get it to open,
the rabbi explained. My key, I stick it in and wriggle, but . . .
He fell silent. Then he gathered his thoughts and said, Nothing is happening.
Must be the wrong key,
said the Locksmith with the arrogance of an experienced tradesman talking to an amateur.
Laibl Goldenhirsch was left standing in the gloom of the staircase.
Suddenly, he heard Moshe call out to him from above, Rabbi? Are you still there?
Yes,
he said.
Silence. Then, after a few seconds, he could hear Moshe’s voice. It was quavering. Forgive me,
said the Locksmith, barely audibly, as if his words had been swallowed by the darkness.
For what?
Another pause. Rabbi Goldenhirsch heard a single, desperate sob echo through the staircase.
I miss her,
Moshe said. Then he trampled up the last few wooden steps and fled to his apartment, banging the door shut.
The rabbi was puzzled.
Glancing out the round window above the staircase, he observed the nearby snow-covered roofs glistening in the moonlight. The sight was so beautiful it bordered on the miraculous. A thought occurred to him: The truth of a miracle is measured by faith alone.
He saw a cloud drifting toward the pale brightness of the moon. The rabbi was thinking: if the cloud managed to hide the moon completely, he would take it as a sign from God. He would accept the birth as a miracle.
He watched, spellbound, as the cloud slowly floated across the night sky.
Then it covered the moon. For a moment, the rabbi stood in complete darkness, as if the world were yet unformed.
When the cloud moved on, the milky moonlight engulfed his face. Suddenly, his anxiety left him. He stood there, trembling in the cold, his feelings like the bottomless sea. Waves of gratitude and love rose to the surface and drove salty tears down his cheeks.
He took a deep breath and opened the toilet door. He went inside, closed the door, unbuttoned his trousers, lifted his overcoat, sat down, pressed his eyes shut, and chose to believe. Every child is a gift, and he decided to accept it as such. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?
THE END OF IT ALL
In the early days of the twenty-first century, in the City of Angels, lived a boy named Max Cohn. About three weeks before his eleventh birthday, his parents took him to a sushi place on Ventura Boulevard and told him they were getting a divorce. They didn’t come out with it right away. For most of the evening, they pretended everything was normal. But Max had a suspicion that something was wrong. They were just too nice to him. He pretty much knew what was coming, right from the start. His best friend in school, Joey Shapiro, had the same thing happen to him a couple of months ago, making Joey something of a tragic hero in class, the object of much admiration and pity. Joey had tasted the bittersweet nectar of tragedy, and he was one step closer to adulthood than the rest of them.
Joey had given Max a piece of sage advice: They’ll take you out to dinner. And they’ll ask you what you want to eat.
He leaned in closer and whispered, I made a mistake and said pizza.
So?
Max asked, thinking, What’s wrong with pizza?
So we went to Mickey’s Pizza Palace.
Ah, Mickey’s Pizza Palace! Max knew it well. A fast food chain for the very young. The pizzas were gigantic, and the place had lots of video games and other fun stuff. This is where he was hoping to celebrate the momentous occasion of his birthday.
Yeah, so?
I ordered a medium pepperoni with extra cheese.
So? Go on!
Then they told me that there were getting divorced. And all I could do was sit there with my pizza. . . .
At that point in the narrative, Joey made a weird choking noise and averted his head. As long as I live, I’ll never eat pizza again,
he said.
This came as a shock to Max. Parents divorce, sure, whatever, but he’d always assumed that pizza was one of those things in life you could count on.
At first, Max had taken comfort in the fact that his own parents would never do anything like that to him. They loved him, they loved each other, they loved Bruno the Bunny—a charming animal who mostly sat in his cage and wiggled his pink nose—and that was that. Or so he thought. But then he began to notice small details that weren’t immediately apparent, hints of a larger picture. Mom wiping her eyes, her eye shadow smeared as if she’d been crying. Dad staying away from home a lot, having to work late,
even on the weekends. Or sleeping on the downstairs sofa, with the TV on, which Max was totally forbidden to do. Doors that had previously been open were now shut. Something was wrong, he could sense it.
One day, when he came home from school and left his bicycle on the front lawn, he found both Mom and Dad sitting rigidly on the sofa, giving him fake smiles.
How about going out for dinner?
Dad said. His voice was too cheerful. Too loud. Alarm bells went off in Max’s head. You choose,
Dad said.
What do you mean?
Max said.
Where would you like to eat?
Max thought for a moment. And then he said, How about sushi?
His parents looked at him in bewilderment.
Are you sure, honey?
Mom asked.
Yeah,
Max said. He figured, so what if he never ate raw fish again in his life.
They went out for sushi. Max had tuna, swordfish, and sea urchin eggs, even though Dad said that sea urchin wasn’t kosher. Max ate it anyway, and it was so gross, he almost puked, and when his parents suddenly held hands and told him that they both loved him very much and that nothing would change for him, he turned red, fought against tears, and started shivering. His mouth was full of fish cum or whatever it was, and in his head, he kept repeating to himself, At least there’ll still be pizza.
Up until this point, Max’s life had been fairly normal. Max was a standard-issue ten-year-old, lanky, with pale skin and unruly red hair. He wore a pair of glasses that his mom had fixed with electrical tape after Dad had sat on them one day. He lived with his family in a one-story house in Atwater Village. His dad was a music-licensing attorney,
whatever that meant, and his mom owned a small boutique on Glendale Boulevard, where she sold Asian furniture and various knickknacks. His family also had the usual assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins, the worst of which probably were Uncle Bernie and Aunt Heidi, who were always bickering. And then there was Grandma, a difficult, high-strung woman who lived on the other side of the mountains, somewhere in the wilderness of the San Fernando Valley, in a far-away place called Encino.
The news of Max’s parents’ impending divorce spread through his class like a wildfire. Joey Shapiro gave him a sympathetic hug, and the girls started looking at him differently. Even Myriam Hyung, with whom he’d had hardly any contact so far, found a few kind words to say.
Sorry about your folks.
Yada yada, he thought. But realizing she was only a girl, not capable of really understanding, and not wanting to be completely dismissive of her feeble attempt at human kindness, he graciously accepted her condolences and replied, Yeah, whatever.
Today he was a man. Your parents’ divorce, Max realized, is your true bar mitzvah. It is a rite of passage separating boys from men. He began to realize how many of his classmates came from what Rabbi Hannah Grossman called broken families.
At first, being from a broken family was awesome. Nothing changed much in the beginning, except that Mom now slept alone in the master bedroom and Dad had to make do on the foldout couch in the living room, which was annoying. Because that’s where the TV set was, which Max had always regarded as his personal property. Now Dad took over, watching sports all the time. But there were advantages. Max relished playing the role of martyr. He was showered in an amount of attention and comic books previously unknown to man. His mom bought him the latest issue of Spider-Man as well as several Batman trade paperback collections. Used to be that Max had to choose: Marvel vs. DC. Dad always said that life is about the choices we make. Which, as it turned out, was a load of crap. You could, in fact, have everything—that’s what being an adult meant. Without a doubt, his parents’ separation was the best thing that had ever happened to his comic book collection.
But deep down, he was worried. He had a secret. He knew why his parents wanted a divorce: it was his fault. Sure, according to Mom, they had to split because Dad had not been able to keep his hands off that slut of a yoga instructor.
But Max knew the truth.
It had happened a few weeks before the fateful sushi night. Max had once again been forced to clean out the bunny cage. Mom had repeatedly pointed out to him that he was the one who had wanted the damn rabbit in the first place. Therefore, bunny duty fell entirely on him. But this time, he asked Dad to do it. Just this once. Pretty please, with sugar on top. Max wanted to go to the movies with Joey Shapiro. And Dad said no. This led to an argument; then Max lost his patience and grumbled at Dad, and Dad defended his point even more bitterly.
So instead of enjoying popcorn and ice cream in an air-conditioned movie theater, Max had to clean out bunny poo. So unfair! When he finally, with much protest, brought out the trash bag, Dad stood by the door and glared disapprovingly at him. Watch your tone,
he said. That’s not how this works, young man. One more peep from you, and we’ll give up Bruno for adoption.
Max threw the trash out, like he was supposed to, but he could feel torrents of rage roiling inside him. Give up Bruno! How mean!
Then he saw a penny by the trash bin and remembered Grandma saying that if you find a penny, you can pick it up, close your